


Safe Place

by Original_Cypher



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Kinda not, M/M, kinda pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Original_Cypher/pseuds/Original_Cypher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the latest edition of **Life Sucks!**, Stiles has to hoof it to Derek's. Alone. At night. In the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Place

Stiles regrets his life so deeply right now. He regrets not having a job so he could have his car fixed. He regrets going to see a movie alone because his friends suck and important pack training and blah blah blah...

The end result is: Stiles is walking alone in the pouring rain, soaked down to his underwear and socks, and freezing.

His car gave a weird hiccup when it started, back on the movie theater's parking lot. He cringed, didn't think anything more of it than ' _I'm going to have to get you checked out again, aren't I?_ ' and drove home. Halfway through, he had to stop at a red light and it stalled on him. It went on strike. No starting back up. Not even emitting any sound when he turned the key.

Fuck.

So, he stepped out in the rain, grunted and panted and cursed his way through pushing the damn thing off the road and askew in a parking spot nearby, and weighed his options.

Call dad? No way. He had mentioned the movie, not the late night showing. The Sheriff wouldn't take kindly to his son being up in the streets at one in the morning on a Wednesday. Well, Thursday.

Walk home? Ugh. This promised blisters and a cold. He was halfway across town.

To Scott's? By his estimate, it was about as far.

Call Scott? No. Scott didn't _have_ a car, and Melissa was on shift.

Call Lydia? Allison? Too late. Phones probably turned off. Also, he would like it if his humiliation didn't culminate in being yelled at for being a loser who wakes people up over the phone.

So he set off for Derek's.

It was closer. He hoped the alpha wouldn't kill him and would take a minimum amount of bribing to drive him home.

So here Stiles is. Feet making squishy sounds in his sneakers, his toes freezing and excruciating. It's a fifteen minutes walk. It's not very far, but once you get to the group of buildings, you have to walk around them all to get into Derek's. By the time he nears the door, his movements are stiff and the cold has reduced the size of his steps consistently.

Stiles figures Derek isn't back yet. If he is around when Stiles stops by on his own, he has a habit of opening the door before Stiles can knock, the he heaves a put upon sigh before asking 'What is it?'. Since Stiles gets to drag his knuckles on the metal and doesn't get any answer still, not even a yell of 'Go away, Stiles.' coming from the bedroom, bathroom or wherever, Stiles deduces that the loft is clear and walks in.

Naturally. Because why would Derek lock his door?

Wait. No. That's stupid. He's barely getting used to having a damn door again in the first place.

Shivering and dripping, Stiles takes a moment to reflect on the misery that is Derek Hale's life.

He waits by the door. He can hear a few cars passing by. Maybe one of them is the Camaro. If he hasn't gone in further, Derek will be less annoyed with him.

It's better inside. No more rain. No more wind. But he's still soaked and shivering. The clattering of his teeth is starting to worry him about long term damage on their enamel. He shrugs off his jacket, shuffles over to the sink and drops it there. He cringes when he looks back and sees the trail of water he left.

He needs to undress. If he's being honest, he knows he won't stay standing, idle, for very long. Also, his clothes are not helping in the 'warming up' department. He needs a shower. He remembers that Derek's is pretty sweet, too, for that time when he and Isaac got sprayed by viscous monster goop blood two months ago and he let them in to wash up before heading home. God, a shower sounds like Heaven.

He leaves his clothes in the sink, pads bare feet up the spiral staircase and into the bathroom. He can only find one towel. It must be Derek's. It's still slightly moist – from Derek's morning shower, he assumes. It'll do.

He stands under the spray until he stops shaking. Then notices he's going pink because the water is definitely _too warm_. He can't really feel it, though. He uncaps Derek's shower gel, is a bit disappointed (although, not surprised), to find it fragrance free. He washes quickly, then hops out. Drying off with a still wet towel is not really comfortable. He tries not to think about Derek rubbing his own body with it. _Sorry, towel. I must be such a disappointment after_ that _._

Wait. Derek has a washing machine now? Damn. Way to become civilized again. It's open, and loaded with dirty laundry. Stiles kneels down to examine what's inside. He finds a pair of sweats – the least he can do while barging in unasked and commandeering clothes is to borrow some that aren't clean. He's got reasonable hope to find a few that aren't stained with blood. He picks a pair of sweatpants that seem to fit the 'worn' category; rather than your common 'dirty/bloody'. Naturally, since they're Derek's, they are a 'I look like a Greek god in my yoga pants' type of sweats. Then, after two tries ( _nope, that's dryad blood and that's... I don't even know. And nope, that's a tank top. I'd look like a midget basketball player and it wouldn't keep me warm at all._ ), he fishes out a sweater. He smirks. A _familiar_ sweater. Miguel's. Huh. So blood does come out. He chuckles quietly to himself and thinks about asking Derek for his 'grandma's trick' to get dried blood out of soft and fragile fabrics.

He ponders putting his boxers back on, but they feel so cold and wet to the touch and it makes him shiver all over again. He pulls on Derek's clothes and pats himself down. They're not as baggy on him as he'd thought. In a way, it makes sense. Derek loves these babies _tight_.

He goes back down stairs and hovers by the couch. He hugs himself. He's still cold. Not on the surface, not his skin. But he had enough time outside for it to sink into his bones. It's really uncomfortable and annoying. He turns his face into his shoulder. The sweater smells like Derek. Only faintly, it's not like he has super senses.

He refuses to find the scent comforting. He's a (nearly) grown man (young adult), who doesn't need a superhero to protect him.

You know. Except he does. At least twice a month.

The only thing that makes him feel better that he's done his fair share of protecting his super friends, too. He's like Agent Coulson. Except no one actually defers to him and he doesn't look nearly as spiffy in a suit.

So. He's tired and delirious. Anyway.

His eyes track to the bed stubbornly.

The comforter is thick and bunched to the side. It's like it's calling out to him.

Right? Just until he warms up. Then he'll wait for Derek on the couch.

Something else is striking about the bed.

It's Dean Winchester levels of sad, Derek's single pillow.

One. Lonely. Pillow.

When did that happen?

There used to be more. He's seen Derek read here and bunch a few up behind his back.

When did he vindictively decide to only leave _one_.

Stiles sighs as he sits down on Derek's side of the bed – he can tell, the sheets are more wrinkled here. That idiot is probably blaming himself for getting tricked again. Stiles feels a pang of regret at that. He's apologized since the hospital. He never blamed Derek for his mistakes. They were just that. Mistakes. He knows the guy and he knows Derek would never put anyone in danger voluntarily. He feels guilty for throwing them in his face. In anger. With people around.

Yeah. He still feels shitty about it, even though he's apologized until Derek threatened him with violence if he didn't stop.

He lays down and pulls the covers over him, letting out a shameless moan of satisfaction at the Pavlovian comfort of the motion. The bed is still cold, but it's a cocoon already. His body knows what happens next, he can feel his knotted muscles relax in anticipation of the coming warmth.

He shifts around on his side, bunches up the pillow to his liking and presses his face into it. And blinks.

It smells faintly of lavender. Which means that, to Derek, it must be a strong aroma. It reminds him of how his 'aroma therapy' cushion smelled when it was new. He grins, remembering how he bugged his mom for it until she caved and imagining Derek going through a few to find something he liked.

He closes his eyes and is out like a light.

A horn blasting in the street wakes him up. He doesn't start, but his eyes fly wide open. He is instantly aware that he's not at home, the memory of his night not at all fuzzy in his mind. The clarity of his thoughts probably means that the noise triggered some kind of fight-or-flight response, flooding his brain with 'be awake' hormones. He's rarely that alert upon waking. Let alone upon being startled into consciousness in the middle of the night.

Then again. He's never been _spooned_ before, either.

Stiles stares down at the heavy arm that lies draped across his waist. "Um..."

"Go back to sleep."

The hot and wet exhale of breath in his neck makes his hair stand on end. "Derek?"

"Hmrff..." It's a contented, quietly acknowledging noise, and the werewolf huffs, nuzzling behind his ear before he settles back. For all intents and purposes, it seems it's okay to leave it at that and go back to sleep.

As if!

Stiles needs to make sure neither of them has a concussion. Or that Derek hasn't been replaced by a changeling. Or drugged. Because this?

What the actual fuck?

"You're cuddling me," Stiles states. He really feels that they should talk about that. Other things also prove troubling: he didn't rouse through the whole process of Derek coming home – that sliding door, albeit being Brian Kinney levels of cool, is not quiet! – then finding him and finally climbing in bed with him; neither did Derek wake him up himself. How? Why?! "You, uh... this is significantly less painful than your usual ways of touching me."

The next noise is a love child between a grumble and a snort. Much more in character. But then Derek shifts a fraction closer, and throws the entire sensation of familiarity out the window all over again. "You...,” The werewolf starts quietly. He sounds annoyed. Stiles knows his Derek speech patterns by now. For once, he's not annoyed with Stiles. He seems frustrated that he has to explain, or possibly struggling to convey what he means. Eventually, after emitting a quiet groan, he just _says it_. “You stripped naked. Washed up. Then you rubbed my scent all over yourself, but my _worn_ clothes on and got into my bed.” Yeah. That looks kind of bad, doesn't it? See, that's why he wanted to move to the couch after... well, you know, instead of falling asleep. “Like an offering,” Derek continues. Oh, that's... _Oh._ Wow. “You couldn't have marked yourself more as a mate than this, Stiles. You need to be careful. You're lucky I can control myself and I know you weren't aware of what you were doing."

"Oh." Stiles stiffens, then moves to push the covers off himself.

“Stay,” Derek says, his arm stiff and unmovable. Stiles hesitates, then lies back down. Derek presses his face back where it was. “This is nice.”

The human relaxes a fraction, then nearly has a heart attack when Derek catches his hand, tangling their fingers together loosely. Stiles swallows. "It is. For me,” he admits. Fuck yeah, who wouldn't want to be Derek Hale's little spoon? Who hasn't, in fact, day dreamed about it? Not Stiles, that's for one. “I didn't know-..."

Derek huffs in his hair. "You're really an idiot."

"Gee, Derek, I'm swooning."

Derek shifts and, yep, these are lips brushing against the back of his neck. Lips and stubble and oh, god... he _can't_ be awake. He just doesn't get to have this. "You're oozing happy feels,” Derek points out, less smug that Stiles would expect, given the 'you're so busted' circumstances. There's another press of lips behind Stiles' ear, this time, an actual kiss to the soft skin there. Then Derek hums, and sinks back into the pillow they share. “Just let us have this."

Stiles licks his lips. Derek has gone back to being still and relaxed against him. The human looks down at their joined hands and frowns. "So that tomorrow we can go back to glare at each other, butt heads and pretend we hate each other's guts?" The only response he gets is Derek burying his face in the hair on the other side of his head, jammed against the mattress. "That would suck, just fyi." At least, this time, he gets a small noise in reply. When enough silence has stretched that Stiles is sure Derek isn't going to respond in any other way, he tugs his hand free. He feels the alpha's fingers twitch with the urge to hold on, but he lets him slip away nonetheless. Stiles hovers, then pokes at Derek's hand. "At least get under the covers."

After a few seconds of stillness, Derek pulls away. Stiles listens as the alpha rids himself of socks, jeans and tee. When the mattress dips under the weight of a knee, he looks over.

Derek locks eyes with Stiles as he slides in the bed. He watches, waiting for a flash of fear or... something, but Stiles just gazes back. He scoots forward, stealing a spot of his own in the cozy cave of warmth Stiles carved for himself. He moves with him, pulls him close when the human turns around and presses into his side. He wraps himself around, and under Stiles, then presses his face into the human's hair. Stiles shuffles into a more comfortable position, resting his arm across Derek's stomach. He snorts at the quiet hiss when he grazes a ticklish spot.

He can't guaranty there won't be some scowling and head butting tomorrow, because that's what they _do_. But Stiles can break him so easily. This, right now. It's proof. Stiles is safe.

No more pretending.


End file.
